Saturday, March 25, 2017

Money, power, prestige…freedom. Echo Coulter is—The Player.
You are a Coulter. You will be perfect. That’s what Echo has been told every day of her life. As the only girl in the Coulter clan, she knows it’s her job to be the glue of the family. But with the Olympics looming, the last thing she wants is to follow the rules. She wants to break free, and she knows just the guy to help her.
Cole Atkins has no interest in spoiled little rich girls. Besides, he’s got the job of a lifetime and just met the girl of his dreams…That is, until she ditches him under the cover of darkness. He can put her out of his head and deal with a spoiled princess for a couple of months right?

He knew where his mind should be. But that didn’t matter because right now it was filled with her, and how the scent of her clung to his skin. Someone that was supposed to be a one-night stand had somehow burrowed her way into his mind. Fine, whatever. He’d figure it out. He could find her again. How hard could it be?
Pulling on a pair of boxers, he looked around his apartment for any trace of her, but found nothing. No excuse to look her up to return something she forgot. If he wanted to see her again, he’d have to find her. And he was surprised by how strong that impulse was.
He’d hooked up a lot, but he’d never had a one-night stand that had gone quite like that. But then, he rarely woke during the night, and so he’d never taken the time to talk, like he had with Cece. Or maybe they’d overshared. He wondered if that was what had run her off so easily. He shook his head to force the thought aside. Not with what had happened between them after their little talk. He wouldn’t believe that they’d been able to connect so strongly physically, if the personal things they shared were what had made her run.
He’d never felt a connection like that before. Maybe her friend had dropped digits. If he couldn’t find her, that was it, he’d let it go. But he at least had to try.

Author Bio:USA Today Best Seller, Nana Malone's love of all things romance and adventure started with a tattered romantic suspense she "borrowed" from her cousin.
It was a sultry summer afternoon in Ghana, and Nana was a precocious thirteen. She's been in love with kick butt heroines ever since. With her overactive imagination, and channeling her inner Buffy, it was only a matter a time before she started creating her own characters.
While she waits for her chance at a job as a ninja assassin, in the meantime Nana works out her drama, passion and sass with fictional characters every bit as sassy and kick butt as she thinks she is.
Want to know when the next book is coming? Hit up her Newsletter here. You'll only get updated when there is a new release or a special promotion for her Sexy, Sassy Readers. http://eepurl.com/2PeXb

Carrie Hansen spent her life caring for cardiac patients. Little did she know she would become a patient herself.

After recovering from her own heart surgery, she learns she has a special talent: the ability to see and talk with the dead.

Now, with her health failing, she leaves the bustle of Seattle behind and returns to Lexington, Missouri, the small town where she spent her childhood. Here, she sets out to restore an abandoned antebellum mansion and open it as a venue for celebrations.

Carrie’s unique gift allows her to build relationships with the mansion’s ghostly occupants, especially Major Tom Gentry, the handsome Civil War soldier who died 100 years before Carrie was born. He encourages and comforts her, though not in the physical way they both desire.

Will Carrie finish restoring the celebration house or will it finish her? And how can she plan a future with a man who has only a past?

When Carrie
opened the door and stepped inside, sunlight streamed in through the dirty
windows. Even though the barn had been vacant for years, the air smelled of hay
and horses.

Looking to her
left, she saw a man shaving. He’d glanced up when Carrie opened the doors, but
returned his gaze to the small mirror tacked to the wooden beam. He was bare
from the waist up. His chest was lean and muscular, with dark brown hair from
mid-chest to his waistline. His arms were powerfully built, and his right hand
was steady as he scraped the white soap from his angular jaw with a razor. His
dark blue uniform pants with gold braid down the side were tucked into
knee-high black leather boots. He stood at least six feet tall, and though
Carrie hadn’t made her living in the carnival, she guessed he was probably
younger than her, likely in his mid to late twenties. He peered at the small
mirror, tilting his chin to swipe away the shaving soap. Carrie waited to speak
until after he’d finished with the ivory-handled straight blade and dipped it
into the basin of soapy water.

“Good morning,”
she said.

His expression
was an equal mix of surprise and annoyance. He dropped the razor and grabbed
his shirt off a nearby nail. He turned his back to Carrie and pulled it on.

“You can see me,
madam?” he asked, buttoning his shirt and stuffing it into his pants.

“Yes. Can you
see me?”

“I can, but I
believe I have the advantage. I’m dead. You are not.” He turned and glared at
her. His eyebrows furrowed as though he wasn’t quite sure how they’d arrived at
the point of introductions.

He reached to
shake her hand, but his fingers passed through hers. They both jerked back.

“I’m sorry. I
really didn’t mean to intrude,” she said.

“You surprised
me. That’s all. We seldom receive visitors, especially living ones who can see
us.” He put on his blue uniform coat and fastened the long row of brass
buttons. “I’m Major Thomas Gentry, at your service.” He bowed.

His eyes
narrowed and he frowned. “How may I be of service to you, Miss Hansen?”

“Where can I
find Colonel Stratton? I need to speak with him.”

His dark blue
eyes showed his increasing puzzlement. “The living do not go looking for
Colonel Stratton. What business have you with him?”

“I bought this
house, and I intend to live here.”

“You bought
Stratton House?”

“And I need to
speak with the colonel.”

Major Gentry
shook his head as though to sort through the details. “Please forgive me. You
bought Stratton House, you intend to live here, and you wish to speak with the
home’s proprietor, Colonel Stratton?”

EMOTIONAL. CAPTIVATING. SEXY.
The long-awaited story of the incorrigible bad boy rockstar and the feisty woman who brought him down to his knees.
They say nothing compares to the first kiss. That sentence needs to be amended. Nothing compares to the first kiss from Oliver Best. I knew in the moment our lips touched that the cocky rockstar would be forever imprinted in my mind. I also knew that loving him would be my destruction. And yet, love him I did.
Oliver Best, former rockstar, heir to one of the largest fortunes in Great Britain, and the country’s most infamous bad boy.
Saylor Blue Carter, college drop-out, lead singer of a struggling band, not a penny to her name.
When they met, it was hate at first sight. Oliver was an arrogant ass. Saylor was a cold hearted bitch. These were the thoughts they had for each other. Until that kiss. That life altering, earth shattering, nuclear kiss. They knew what that kiss meant. They knew anything between them would be explosive and without hope for a happily ever after. So they vowed to forget, they tried to stay away. But now with their best friends’ wedding approaching, all bets are off.
*This is Part One of a 3-Part story.

I brace myself for the impact, but as soon as Oliver turns around and my gaze collides with his electric blue eyes, I know I’ll have to bring my A-game if I’m to survive being near him. I haven’t seen the man in six months, but just being under his scorching gaze is enough to make me relive our fiery kiss and crave for more. I’ve never felt this crazy fixation for anyone before. It’s like an ice cold fever that won’t quit, a yearning that makes by body tingle all over in anticipation.
Oliver’s gaze skates over my body deliberately slowly, and a satisfied grin is plastered on his smug face when he focuses on my eyes again.
“Hello, there,” he says.
“What are you doing here?” I snap and my rude reply earns me a frown from Sebastian. Shit, I really need to work on tempering my bitchiness when I’m nervous.
Oliver chuckles. “I see you’re still mad at me. I’m kind of honored.”
I cross my arms in front of my chest and bite my tongue to keep from saying anything else that will give away how much Oliver is affecting me.
Someone touches my arm and with a side glance I see it’s Liv. “Be nice, Blue. I can’t have my maid of honor bickering with the best man.”
My shoulders sag as I let out a heavy sigh. I’ve never been part of a wedding party before so I have no idea how much interaction there is between the maid of honor and the best man. I hope it’s minimal. Oliver keeps staring at me like he can read my mind. It’s unnerving.
“I gotta make a call.” I turn on my heel and walk away, trying to keep my steps slow and relaxed. But all I want to do is sprint back to the house. That’s how badly Oliver’s presence is turning my head around. I hate this.
Once inside, I veer to the powder room. The make-a-call excuse is terrible, but I need a moment to recover. Inside the small room, I stare at my reflection in the mirror and count to ten in my head. I tell my heart to calm the fuck down and to stop galloping at full speed. I feel like a teenager suffering from her first crush and that’s not an emotional state I want to revisit.
I splash cold water on my flushed face and redo my loose braid. After taking a couple of deep breaths and squaring my shoulders, I can almost pretend I’m ready to go back out. I refuse to let Oliver’s presence keep me from spending quality time with my best friend.
I place one foot out of the door when his voice startles me. “How was that call?”
I jump on the spot, placing a hand over my chest. “Jesus. Did you follow me?”
Oliver is leaning nonchalantly against the wall with his arms crossed. I notice for the first time what he’s wearing, a black T-shirt that highlights his muscled chest and arms. He is also blonder than I remember. But it’s his devious mouth that makes me lose the ability to form coherent thoughts. God, I want to kiss him again.
He pushes himself off of the wall and moves closer. I hold my ground, feigning a pissed off stance. He can’t know how much I crave his nearness.
“What if I did?” he whispers in my ear, making my skin break out in goose bumps.
“I’d say I don’t appreciate stalkers.”
Oliver takes a step back and stares at me. I wish I knew what he is thinking.
“You’ve changed your hair. I kind of liked the mermaid colors.”
I touch my white blonde locks before narrowing my eyes at Oliver. “Did you just follow me to comment on my hair?”
“I want to clear the air around us. I know that we started on the wrong foot—”
“You don’t say,” I cut him off and Oliver flattens his lips.
“But we’ve ended on a very interesting note,” he finishes his sentence with a smirk.
I cross my arms and keep on glaring at the infuriating man. “Don’t get any fancy ideas. That kiss meant nothing and there won’t be a repeat.”
He steps into my personal space again. “Are you sure? I thought that was a wicked kiss. It’s definitely worth an encore.”
I push him away. “It’s been months. Get over yourself. Don’t you have a line of ravenous groupies dying for your attention?”
“Ravenous groupies?” He chuckles. “The images you paint in my head, Saylor. Then you blame me for getting fancy ideas.”
“Listen, Oliver. I don’t know how long you’re in town for, but I would like for us to try to act amicable whenever we’re forced together thanks to our friends’ wedding. So you’d better quit with the sexual innuendo.”
Oliver sighs loudly like what I just asked him is a huge, inconvenient favor. “You’re killing me here, Saylor. Do you know how hard it will be for me to look at you and not want you?”
I suck in a breath as my heart lurches in my chest. It takes me a moment to find my ground again and answer him.
“Try your best,” I say, my voice thin and without substance.
Oliver reaches out and takes a strand of my hair, letting it slide through his fingers. I remain frozen on the spot.
“Maddening, but I will.” He drops my hair and takes a couple of steps back. “And since I’m being completely honest here, I’m seriously considering making California home.”
Oliver goes back to the party outside, leaving me alone to digest the news. Why does it bother me so much that he wants to move to the same state as me? It’s not like we’ll ever see each other besides when we’re doing wedding stuff. What annoys me the most is how my heart hasn’t gotten the memo yet that Oliver is a bad idea. It celebrates furiously in my chest, like it has just discovered how to beat.

Author Bio:

M. H. Soars always knew creative arts were her calling but not in a million years did she think she would become an author. With a background in fashion design she thought she would follow that path. But one day, out of the blue, she had an idea for a book. One page turned into ten pages, ten pages turned into a hundred, and before she knew, her first novel, The Prophecy of Arcadia, was born.
M. H. Soars resides in Florida with her husband and baby daughter. She is currently working on the Arcadian Wars series, and the Love Me, I’m Famous series.

Framed for the murder of a high ranking member of the Unseelie Court of Fae, Steve Dore–also known as Diomedes, Guardian and protector of mankind–goes on the run. He’s determined to uncover the real culprit and clear his name.

But the assassination may be the beginning of a more sinister plot that involves not just the Fae and Humankind, but all the races of the world. And what if the real assassin is a boogeyman even the Fae don't believe is real?

Selkies.
Thirty-five miles offshore in the Pacific Ocean, and I’m dodging freakin’
selkies in my fishing boat. It’s like they’re seagulls, and I’m dropping French
fries at the beach. Man do they screw up the fishing. Worse, when they appear,
bad things tend to follow. And it’s just my luck. Of all fae to show up
randomly, it had to be these shapeshifters—the kind that could transform into
seals and even into sea lions, which scare the crap out of the fish. Every pile
of floating kelp we’d fished around so far had one of these fairies under it.
Every kelp except the paddy right in front of the boat.

“Captain Dore,
look! Another seal,” the woman said, reaching for her camera.

And that selkie
made it a perfect five for five.

I couldn’t help
but hang my head. My clients—a simple Midwestern family of Mom, Dad, and
Teenage Son—considered it endearing to see a seal poke its head up from inside
the kelp, but I could see their true bulbous heads, seaweed-like hair, and
pudgy gray-green humanoid forms. Their giant, shiny-black eyes fixed on me as
if they knew exactly who I was.

The creepy
shapeshifters were part of the Unseelie Court—fairies that are decidedly
unfriendly to humans—and the fact that we kept encountering them was starting
to unnerve me. Encountering one in the Pacific was rare. In fact, I couldn’t
recall one off Southern California since an entire tribe of them showed up
around Catalina Island in the 1980s. That appearance had led to a spate of
unidentified submerged object and alien sightings, not to mention a few
mysterious plane crashes around the island and a heap of sunken boats.

“Hey what’s that
big fin?” the father asked, pointing at the rapidly approaching triangular
object sticking out of the water and heading straight at the paddy from the
opposite side.

“Shark,” I said
with a sudden smile. “Damn big one, too. Great white, from the looks of it.
Rare for us down here in San Diego.”

“Oh, swim, seal!
Swim!” the mom said as all hell broke loose around the paddy.

“Wow, really,”
the kid said. “It’s like a real National Geographic moment.” He whipped out his
phone to video the event.

I was the only
one on the boat rooting for the shark. If they’d known what that shark was
really chasing, they probably would have thought it was more like a National
Enquirer moment.

Knowing the
selkie-shark conflict would ruin the fishing within a mile of that paddy, I
pushed farther out, always on the lookout for signs of life other than selkies.
As long as we could avoid them, we found lots of small football-sized yellowfin
tuna while we trolled, and I’d even managed to convince the anglers to release
the little guys, in hopes of finding bigger ones. The small fish kept me
blissfully busy until we made it back to the dock at around four in the
afternoon—so busy, in fact, that I forgot about how screwy the presence of
selkies was until I realized my buddy Ned was storming down the dock toward my
boat as I pulled in.

As usual, Ned
was dressed in a Hawaiian shirt with colors usually reserved for Las Vegas
neon. The fact that he resembled a derelict version of Santa Claus usually drew
people’s attention. It was either that or the fact that he always smelled like
beer-soaked seaweed washed up on a beach. It could be worse given that Ned was
in fact the Titan God of the Sea, Nereus, in self-imposed exile.

As I secured the
boat to the dock, my cellphone, stashed inside my captain’s bag within the
console, chirped the unique ring my buddy Geek had helped me assign to Sarah
Wright. I felt guilty for avoiding her over the past two weeks. Despite
scrambling to reach the annoying device before the call went to voice mail, I
wasn’t quick enough. I tossed the phone on the console, thoroughly disgusted
with my wishy-washy-ness regarding our relationship—or whatever we had. I was
pretty sure we both wanted to take things to the next level, but I was
conflicted about what that would mean for both of us since my situation wasn’t
exactly normal.

I’ll call her
back as soon as I can. I sighed, watching my three clients stumble off the
boat, trying to adjust to sea legs on land after a full day on the water. They
chatted excitedly about sharks and sea lions as they went. Ned stood down the
dock, waiting, staring intently at me with his hands on his hips and one
flip-flop-clad foot tapping away. The trio barely managed to get past him
before he charged the boat.

“Diomedes, dude,
glad to see you made it back okay.” Ned’s shoulders dropped a bit as he exhaled
heavily. “Now get yer ass off the damn boat and back onto land.” He dipped his
head slightly and glared over his sunglasses at me, his brow deeply furrowed.

I stopped taking
rods out of the rod racks under the gunwales and stared back at him. Something
had him on edge, and that was saying something. Normally, he made people on
Prozac appear edgy. In over a thousand years, I’d never seen him like this
before.

The myriad of
seagulls and pelicans gathered around the boat awaiting leftover bait and fish
carcasses took off in a sudden deafening and chaotic commotion.

“Whoa. Relax,
Ned. What’s got your panties in a bunch?” I said, getting back to my after-charter
chores. “Sheesh. Besides, I think the dad left a few beers if you want them.”

Normally, Ned’s
first question to me would have involved the possible presence of abandoned
beer. Instead, he fixed me with a withering stare. His hands were back on his
hips, and his foot again tapped on the dock. When we’d first met a few thousand
years before, he’d naturally emanated an aura of power. Though he’d since
willingly given up most of his other-dimensional essence, the preternatural
blue glow was now visible.

“Dude, which
part of ‘now’ ain’t you understandin’?” He spoke through a clenched jaw and
pointed at the dock forcefully, like a parent demanding a child’s immediate
presence. Over his sunglasses, his eyes darted everywhere, keeping watch around
us.

“Okay, okay,” I
said, eyeing my fish-slimed gear and all the sardine scales and scuff marks
marring the deck. “Who’sgonna clean all this up? You know if I let it sit,
it’ll be even harder to clean later.”

“I’ll take care
of it,” Ned replied. “Just get yer ass off the water. Right.Now.”

“Fine.” I kicked
at my rods like a petulant child. “Let me get my damn gear bag, and I’ll
leave.”

I grabbed my
captain’s bag and stormed down the dock in a huff, glaring at Ned. I didn’t
even bother to take off my grungy gray rubber fishing bibs. He avoided making
eye contact as I passed him, which only pissed me off more. Instead, his eyes
continued to dart around the marina. Whatever.

I got to my
truck, threw my gear bag in the bed, then stripped off the rubber bibs. While
hopping around on one leg like an idiot, trying to get the bibs off over my
deck boots, I worked myself up from a huff to a tizzy. Who the hell did he
think he was ordering me around like that? Athena? Throwing my bibs into the
bed with the rest, I glanced over my shoulder, toward the dock.

Just as I was
about to get into my truck, a more pressing question hit me: Why? Ned actually
yelled at me. In over two millennia, I had never even witnessed him raise his
voice. What’d I do to him?

I instantly felt
like I owed him an apology, without even knowing what I’d done. I headed back
down to the dock.

As I approached
the top of the gangway, Ned was in a heated discussion with something in the
water on the other side of the dock from my boat. I couldn’t get a clear view
of who or what Ned was talking with, or hear what was being said. The only
things evident were the loud and freakish sea lion-like barks and Ned’s wild
and very uncharacteristic gesticulations. Instinctively, I searched for
something to use as a weapon—a boat hook was leaning against the fence next to
the gate down to the dock.

Then a
putty-colored round female head covered in thick yellow-green hair popped up
just above the dock and peered directly at me. Ned noticed me, as well, and all
at once, the creature disappeared below the water’s surface creating a wake
that tossed the floating dock and rocked the boats tied up nearby. She was
definitely one of the selkies I had encountered earlier offshore.

I stopped dead
in my tracks. Ned shook his head and stomped toward me, which couldn’t have
been easy in flip-flops. His eyes were ablaze—literally. His awakened aura
pulsed from white to blue like a lightning storm.

I shrugged and
raised my eyebrows as his gaze fell on me. The temperature began to drop, and
the water around the dock changed from a drab green to black and turned rough,
as if it were about to boil. The disturbance bounced the moored boats against
their bumpers and the dock, and the rigging on the sailboats began to clang.
Even the remaining birds evacuated—only noiselessly.

“Boy, who did
you piss off this time?” he said at me more than to me in a voice that
reverberated through my skull. It wasn’t loud, but it was insistent in its
tone.

I couldn’t
recall having done anything to anybody since chasing down that witch, Medea, a
few months back, and as far as I knew, everyone I could have pissed off doing
that was dead.

Ned continued up
the ramp from the dock toward me, somehow appearing larger than normal. His
face, especially his eyes, darkened. “Don’t play games with me. You got selkies
chasin’ yer ass all over the Pacific, and they had to travel around the world
to get here to do it. Nytrocyon herself is here to find you.” He pointed back
down toward my boat. “She says Mab wants you. Says you killed Lord Indronivay.”

“Nytrocyon,
ruler of the selkies? Seriously?” My teeth started to chatter, and my jaw
muscles clenched in the frigid air. “Wait… she said I killed who? Lord
Indronivay, Mab’s warmaster? Are you kidding me? Why the hell would I have
killed that uptight belligerent asshole?”

I’d never even
met him, but his reputation as a jerk was legendary. Even as a Guardian and
protector of humanity, I knew him only through stories that suggested he was a
giant at nearly eight feet tall and was about as friendly as a shark with a
toothache. All I really knew about him was that he personally ran every major
war and military campaign Queen Mab of the Unseelie Court had waged for tens of
thousands of years. Hell, the guy might have charged into battle against Queen
Titania of the Seelie Court on the back of a triceratops.

I shrugged
again. “Now why the hell would I do something like that? Honestly?”

Ned’s shoulders
dropped slightly, and his pulsing aura faded. Though his face brightened and
his bushy beard and mustache split, revealing his white teeth in a broad smile,
the rest of him remained rigid. “Good. I didn’t think you were dumb enough to
attack a member of one of the fairy royal courts. That’d be grounds for war.
Only problem is then, dude”—he slowly slipped back into his normal relaxed and
carefree persona—“you gotta ask yerself one question: why does she think you
did?”

About the Author:

Brian S. Leon is truly a jack of all trades and a master of none. He writes just to do something with all the useless degrees and skills he’s accumulated over the years. Most of them have no practical application in civilized society, anyway. His interests include mythology and fishing, in pursuit of which he has explored jungles and museums, oceans and seas all over the world.

His credentials include an undergraduate degree from the University of Miami and a master’s degree from San Diego State University, plus extensive postgraduate work in evolutionary biology at the University of Massachusetts Amherst, where he studied animals most people aren’t even aware exist and theories no one really cares about anyway.

Over his varied career, Brian’s articles have been published in academic journals and popular magazines that most normal people would never read. They can be found in The American Society of Primatologists, the American Journal of Physical Anthropology, Proceedings of the American Association of Zoos and Aquariums and the like.

His more mainstream work came as an editor for Marlin and FlyFishing in Salt Waters magazines, where he published articles about fishing and fishing techniques around the world. He won a Charlie Award in 2004 from the Florida Magazine Association for Best Editorial, and several of his photographs have appeared on a number of magazine covers—almost an achievement of note, if they weren’t all fishing magazines.

Always a picky reader, Mr. Leon enjoys stories by classical masters like Homer and Jules Verne as well as modern writers like J.R.R. Tolkien, David Morrell and Jim Butcher. These books, in combination with an inordinate amount of free time, inspired him to come up with tales of his own.

I was standing alone at the helm, under full sails and a glittering sky, guiding the ship unerringly across the endless black sea with only the stars to guide me, like the sailors of old. It was amazing. This was why I was here, why I’d gone ahead with this semester at sea, even after everything that had happened. Because I loved the sea, and wanted it to be a part of my life.

I returned my gaze upward, focusing on my guide star.“‘And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.’”
The low voice came out of nowhere. I spun to the right, where I could just make out the vague outline of someone leaning against the stanchion that held Speedy the motorboat suspended at the stern.
“Tristan?” As soon as the question left my mouth, I rolled my eyes in the darkness. Of course it was him.
“Aye, it’s me.”
“How long have you been standing there?” I hissed. “And where the hell did you come from?” I’d been at the helm for at least half an hour, and I knew he hadn’t been there the whole time.
There was a flash of white in the darkness as he grinned. “I’ve been here for about five minutes. You were so focused on staring up at the stars that you didn’t see me. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“So instead, you just lurked in the dark until you could scare the hell out of me. Makes sense,” I muttered, trying not to be too thrilled that he’d chosen to hang out up here with me. “What was it that you said, anyway?”
“It’s from a poem. The full verse is:“‘I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.’”
His lilting accent gave the lines a musical quality, and a shiver ran down my spine. “It’s beautiful,” I said, “and perfectly describes the way I feel. You didn’t write that, did you?” Because it would be supremely unfair for him to be kind, gorgeous, athletic, musically brilliant, and a poet, too.

Author Bio:

My first book, written in elementary school, was bound in pink fabric and was about—what else?—a girl and her horse. I soon began cheating on horses with the sea, becoming an open water scuba diver at age 14. That love of the sea led me to a college semester aboard a schooner. I returned with fond memories of the exhilaration of being on a ship under full sail, less fond memories of hurling over the leeward rail on a daily basis, and a sailing bug I couldn’t quite shake.
In addition to horses and the sea, I have a fascination for all things Scottish (including, but not limited to, men in kilts), which I explored with my first novel, INTO THE SCOTTISH MIST (The Wild Rose Press, 2011), and carried into my new novel, A STAR TO STEER HER BY (Entangled Embrace, 2017). A native New Yorker, I work in the publishing industry and am always looking ahead to my next voyage, whether a short one on a dive boat or whale watch, or, with luck, a longer one on a tall ship. You can find me on the web at www.bethannemiller.com

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

Who is Mason Reeves?
Corrine Rivers and her cousins desperately need to find out. Evidence suggests he’s the illegitimate child of her beloved Uncle Grant. The truth is just as hard to bear.
What’s also hard is Mason himself. All over. From his broad, muscular chest and massive biceps to his “screw you” attitude. Because Mason Reeves wants nothing to do with his inheritance or the wealthy Rivers clan, and isn’t afraid to say so.
As Mason’s tragic connections to Corrine’s family emerge, the facts are reason enough for her to stay away. But she can’t seem to resist him, and what’s worse, he feels the same way about her. To everyone’s surprise, Corrine and Mason get in deep, in more ways than one. But it turns out the biggest obstacle to their happiness isn’t Mason’s past.
It’s hers.

Standing behind me, he says, “Corrine…” with that damned heated desire for me practically dripping from his voice. I ignore him.

I tug the ribbon at the back of my head, removing the mask and slapping it on the table.
I’m only just standing here, but I’m breathing hard and shallow. His breaths are coming hard too, but still he doesn’t move. He crossed half the country to get to me, but he won’t close the final one-foot gap.
I want to say that I wish he’d never come, but it’d be a big, fat lie. Even though it would’ve been so much easier, even though I’m hurt and angry about the situation we’re in now—which I know isn’t even his fault—my heart still clings to every second I’ve had with him, wishing so hard for more.
I hear his mask drop on the table next to me.
“Why did you even bother coming?” I spin to face him. And there he is. All him. No mask. No hiding. Only Mason. Just looking at him consumes me.
He doesn’t answer. His eyes grip me and his breath comes out in hard, little puffs. The intensity of his stare halts my own breath. God, he looks like he’s going to attack.
Then he does. He rushes me, cupping my face and backing me against the wall. I let out a gasp.
“I know this is a bad fucking idea,” he says heatedly, “but I’m so tired of fighting it. The whole flight over, I kept asking myself what the fuck I’m doing, but I have no idea. I only know I can’t take this any longer.”
Having this much testosterone aimed in my direction is making my ovaries pop. He’s so fucking male. I’m pinned, the wall behind me and nothing but Mason in front. He dominates everything I see. All I know is his hard body against mine, his hot breath on my lips, his gaze seizing me. I can’t look away. I can hardly breathe.
“I can’t resist you. I have to have you.” His eyes lock on my mouth. “I have to taste you.”
Stripped of the ability to speak, I can only part my lips in invitation. Begging him to give in at last.

Author Bio:

J.L. White writes sassy, steamy contemporary and new adult romances featuring smart heroines and the swoon-worthy men who adore them. If you’re tired of heroes who are jerks, heroines who are too stupid to live, and relationships that scream “train wreck” instead of “true love”, she’s your girl.
Her first series, the Firework Girls, centers around four amazing, hilarious girlfriends. Her newest series, Beautiful Rivers, follows the young heirs of the luxurious Rivers Paradise Resort as they find love.
Each book can be read as a STANDALONE, comes complete with a HEA, and is guaranteed to make you squirm.

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

Marie Kelly is a survivor who doesn’t know when to quit. Against all odds, she’s living a life she never dreamed she could have. It was enough… until a stubborn boxer makes her want more.

Irish charmer Kieran Doherty has been a fighter at Driscoll’s Gym for most of his life. He’s been content to let his best friend take the spotlight, now it’s his turn to make a name for himself in the world of heavy weight champions. Falling in love is the one thing he vowed never to do, but meeting Marie changed everything.

It’s easy to imagine a happy-ever-after when the sun is shining. But when the storm comes, and all hope seems lost, they both learn that if you want something badly enough, you have to be willing to fight for it.

When I finally plucked up a bit of courage, I peeped out of the curtains to see Kieran throwing stones at the window.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair,” he mock shouted, when he caught my eye. I opened the window to whisper loudly back at him.
“Are you high?” I asked. “Why didn’t you just ring the doorbell or call me?”
“I thought this would be more romantic,” he said.
“If I ignore the fact that my nipples probably have frostbite, I am feeling romanced,” I replied. He looked pained. “What’s wrong?” I asked.
“You said ‘nipples’ and now I can’t think of anything else,” he replied, making me smile.
“Now I’m down here, what’s the chances of seeing an accidental nip slip?” he asked.
“Depends,” I replied.
“On what?” he asked.
“What’s in the bag?” I said.
“Hot chocolate and warm doughnuts,” he said, holding up the bag as if to barter.
“Well, I would have said slim to none, but fresh doughnuts might have just tipped the odds in your favour,” I replied.
“Yesss!” he said, fist bumping the air in victory.
I closed the window and ran to buzz him in. He bounded up the stairwell, his heavy footsteps echoing loudly in the hallway. When he got to my door, he looked me up and down, taking in my short royal blue, silk pyjamas. Dropping the sack, he speared his hands into my hair and pulled me into a kiss that had me melting. Kier didn’t kiss with just his lips; he did it with his whole body. Without shoes on, I was tiny in comparison, but inside of the cage of his huge arms, I felt protected and safe. Despite his size, his lips were so gentle. He didn’t treat me like I was fragile, but like I was precious, as though every touch was one that he was experiencing for the first time and memorizing for later.
Feeling bold, I traced the seam of his mouth with my tongue, and when he parted his lips and touched his tongue against mine, I groaned. Every sensation was too much, and not enough. Breathless, he pulled away from me to nuzzle his face in the crook of my neck. I reached up and gently stroked the short hair at the back of his neck, making him sigh.

Author Bio:USA Today bestselling author R.J. Prescott was born in Cardiff, South Wales, and studied law at the University of Bristol, England. Four weeks before graduation she fell in love, and stayed. Ten years later, she convinced her crazy, wonderful firefighter husband to move back to Cardiff where they now live with their two equally crazy sons. Her debut novel The Hurricane was an international bestseller and finalist in the Goodreads Awards in the category of debut author.

Monday, March 20, 2017

Jared
I’m not your boyfriend. I’m not the guy next door. I don’t even play nice.
My hands twisting in your hair, my whispered demand in your ear—I’m the fantasy you’ll wish you never had.
When I’m through with you, every inch of your body will know where I’ve been. You won’t crave more, you’ll beg for it. Because I’m not just the cocky smile with military hardened muscles you paid five grand for—I’m the experience you’ll never forget.
One night with me and you’ll know exactly why women pay me to be rough.

Desire hit me in the chest like a blast wave, then shot south. “You shouldn’t be here.” She didn’t look like she’d sounded on the phone.
“I’m sorry.” Breathy, her voice wavered. “I thought you said—”
“I know what I said.” I’d replayed every second of our conversation earlier. I’d fixated on it because this woman wasn’t like any other client I’d ever spoken to. She didn’t flirt or make one suggestive remark. She was exactly how she was now. But a hundred times more innocent.
She drew in a breath through her sexy full lips, then straightened. “Okay, well, you said we should meet. We did. Thank you for your time.” Slim fingers reached behind her and she fumbled with the handle of the front door.
I stared at her sweet mouth. “You know what I think?”
“I’m sure you have many thoughts, Mr. Brandt.”
My name on her lips sounded too damn polite. “Only two right now that matter.” I stepped closer, wondering why the hell I’d told her my last name.
She pulled the handle, the door opened a few inches and she stumbled.
“Careful.” I caught her arm and her hand landed on my stomach.
She sucked in a surprised breath. “I’m so sorry.” She bit her bottom lip and pressed her legs together as she stared at her hand. “It was, um, the door.” She flexed her fingers over my abs.
I leaned closer. “Do you know what separates fear from desire?”
Her chest rapidly rose and fell, but she didn’t take her hand off me. “I believe those are two terms that should be mutually exclusive.”
Hard and fast, I slapped my palm loudly against the door, slamming it shut. Perversely getting off on her startled reaction, I bit out two words, “That’s fear.” Calculated, slow, I dragged a finger a few inches up her bare thigh, then I cupped her face. She shivered and I dropped my voice. “But this?” I stroked her bottom lip as I stared at the thousand shades of fuck-my-life-up green in her eyes. “Biting your lip, pressing your thighs together—that’s desire.”
Her hand fisted, gripping a handful of my shirt, but she didn’t say a word.
Still holding on to her, wishing like hell I wasn’t about to let her go, I calmly shifted her to the side. Opening the door, I removed all threat from my tone. “Fear is triggered. Desire is provoked. Leave.” I told myself not to say the next line. “Or stay and get what you came for.”

Author Bio:

Sybil Bartel grew up in Northern California with her head in a book and her feet in the sand. She dreamt of becoming a painter but the heady scent of libraries with their shelves full of books drew her into the world of storytelling. She loves the New Adult genre, but any story about a love so desperately wrong and impossibly beautiful makes her swoon.
Sybil now resides in Southern Florida and while she doesn’t get to read as much as she likes, she still buries her toes in the sand. If she isn’t writing or fighting to contain the banana plantation in her backyard, you can find her spending time with her handsomely tattooed husband, her brilliantly practical son and a mischievous miniature boxer…
But Seriously?
Here are ten things you probably really want to know about Sybil.
She grew up a faculty brat. She can swear like a sailor. She loves men in uniform. She hates being told what to do. She can do your taxes (but don’t ask). The Bird Market in Hong Kong freaks her out. Her favorite word is desperate…or dirty, or both—she can’t decide. She has a thing for muscle cars. But never reply on her for driving directions, ever. And she has a new book boyfriend every week—don’t tell her husband.
To find out more about Sybil Bartel, be sure to follow her on Twitter (she loves to hear about your favorite book boyfriend!), visit her website, like her on Facebook or join her Facebook group Book Boyfriend Heroes for exclusive excerpts and giveaways.